She planted a hand on her hip. “I was under the impression that Mr. Boyer was the leader.”
“Allison, you cannot join us. When we reach Marseille, you will separate from us, and that is the end of this discussion.” Her mouth opened to argue, so I powered on. “You have no reason to be here! I did not ask you to come to Paris! I did not ask you to tell me of my mother’s death. And I most certainly did not ask you to board this airship. I. Do. Not want you here. None of us does! What is so hard for you to understand about that?”
My final words rang out, echoing above the airship’s creak. Allison’s face paled. For several long breaths she simply stared at me. Then her eyelids lowered icily, and she said, “Of course you do not want my company—just as I suspected all along. Forgive me, Eleanor, for hoping otherwise.” Her chin tipped up, and she whirled around to return to her stool.
And my mouth bounced open. I had not intended to say that—at least not so cruelly. Yes, I wanted her to go away, but I had been better raised than this. My manners had failed me, and even if she was a girl I had grown up loathing, I appreciated what she had done.
But it was too late to withdraw my words. Allison was seated once more, her gaze latched on to the grassy patchworks outside and her posture unyielding.
I turned and dragged my feet to the door . . . then into the hall. And as I returned to my cabin, Oliver’s words shrieked in my mind, over and over again.
You will push everyone away. Just like he did, you will lose us all.
CHAPTER THREE
I was shaking by the time I reached my cabin. I had lost my hard-earned balance, and though I squeezed the ivory fist in a death grip, it did not soothe me.
I didn’t want to push everyone away. I wanted to be alone, yes, but not forever. It isn’t your fault, I told myself. It is Oliver who pushes your friends away. Yet Joseph was still my friend—and Daniel had regained his regard for me once more.
Shoving the fist into my pocket, I marched from my room to the pilothouse. I would prove this was Oliver’s doing and not my own.
But I paused in the pilothouse doorway, blinded by the onslaught of light and squinting as I waited for my eyes to adjust. Daniel stood at the steering wheel, its multiple spokes reaching up to his chest. At his right were two brass handles, waist high and fastened to some unseen mechanism below the floor. At his left were two more levers, and as my vision finally cleared, I watched him shift both levers forward and then spin the steering wheel sharply right.
The balloon swayed slightly and then shifted its course, heading south . . . and revealing the dark-blue waters of the Mediterranean.
For half a breath I simply stared—finally feeling a sense of wonder twine through me. I was seeing the Mediterranean. From above. I was flying.
“For every beauty,” I murmured beneath my breath, “there is an eye somewhere to see it.”
Daniel stiffened . . . and then turned very slowly toward me. Clack, clack, clack. He extended a worn, dented spyglass. Then thwump! He snapped it shut. “How are you?” His voice was rough, as if he hadn’t spoken in hours.
“All right,” I lied. He nodded, but I could tell from the flick of his eyebrows that he didn’t believe me.
I moved fully into the room and craned my neck to examine the view outside. It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Such blue waters and craggy cliffs. A few scrubby plants eked out an existence in the dry landscape, and though there were still farms, the patches of green were localized and small. Most of this Provençal world was one of dusty hills, dustier roads, and bleached-out houses—and no wonder, with such a hot, bright sun.
And it was doubly hot and bright in the pilothouse thanks to all the windows. A sheen of sweat covered Daniel’s forehead.
I shifted my gaze to the back of the room, to where charts and maps covered two low tables. Above, hanging on hooks, were white satchels with leather straps.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing at the packs.
Daniel made an apologetic smile. “It’s a bit late now—I should’ve told you about ’em before we left Paris, but then . . . you know. . . .” He trailed off, clearly wishing to avoid mention of Mama’s death.
That was fine by me. “What are they then?”
“Parachutes.” At my blank look, he explained, “They’re for safety. If for some reason we have to hightail it from the ship but we’re still in the air, then you put one of those on your back. When you yank that piece of fabric beside the strap”—he motioned to a dangling flap of canvas—“a parachute will come flyin’ out. It’ll fill with air and stop your fall.”
“Oh.” My forehead creased as I tried to imagine how a piece of fabric could possibly fight gravity.